


the faithful traveller, ardently hailed

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [28]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creeper Ramsay, M/M, Ramsay and Sansa are BFFs, Rickon Stark is King in the North, implied Jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 10:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14999282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Podrick Payne's quest comes to an unexpected conclusion at Winterfell. Direct sequel tothe sly traveller, killing kingdoms.*Pod's POV was the one thing I never intended to write in this verse. But lots of people wanted to know more about the alternate timeline, so using a loophole I have created for myself, please enjoy this ONE and ONLY look at Pod's POV!





	the faithful traveller, ardently hailed

If they hadn’t been afraid for their lives every time they heard voices on the wind, the North would have been a beautiful place. Podrick was used to the fertile beauty of the rich forest land in the Westerlands, and the well tilled greenery of the lands about the Trident. But the North had a wild, unique charm.

They had spent so long in the Riverlands, on the heels of Arya Stark, to fulfill his lady’s promise to Lady Catelyn. But Arya had run from them. And though his lady had been near despair, they had soon stumbled across Lady Sansa, which had reinvigorated her again.

Despite Lady Sansa’s dismissal, Brienne had been determined to dog her steps, and remain within easy distance of making contact with her again. They could not breach Winterfell’s walls, but they could remain close to the Winter Town, picking up gossip from the locals. No one had anything kind to say of Ramsay Bolton, Lady Sansa’s new lord husband.

They heard whispers of flaying, murders of the most brutal kind, and kinslaying. Some swore he had murdered his elder brother to become Roose Bolton’s only heir. Others scoffed, and claimed the two sons of Lord Bolton were unnaturally obsessed with one another, such as Targaryens or now the Lannisters, might be with their siblings. Brienne listened to all the filthy stories with a mulish look on her face, especially whenever anyone disparaged Ser Jaime. But she never said a word to reveal herself. Podrick was proud of her. It was not easy to learn that you could not defend the honour of those you cared about, for each and every insult. Yet sometimes it was simply too dangerous to take such risks.

One eve, as they entered a dimly lit tavern they had visited before, Pod and Brienne found a hubbub of chatter. Men were talking over one another, and bumping into each other in their excitement.

“What’s all this about, then?” Brienne asked, her voice dropped low, so that she might pass for a man.

The drunkard swaying afore her seemed fooled, at the least.

“Winterfell’s flying Stark banners again,” the man proclaimed with a hiccup, sloshing ale over himself as he staggered, “Old Gurn saw’t, but they called him a liar, so we did- and off’t castle we goes, and we saw’t true, the grey wolf tis back, and they say little Rickon lives!”

Brienne exchanged a look of alarm with Podrick, clearly feeling the same shock he did. They took a seat at a crowded bench, and listened to the rumours fly all about them. The one consistent fact seemed to be that Roose Bolton was dead, and his son had declared for House Stark.

Her lips pressed closed in grim determination, and without saying a word, Brienne told him what she desired.

*

Winterfell was easily the largest castle Podrick had ever seen. With its smooth exterior walls stretching for miles in either direction, the thick grey brickwork seemed to blot out the sun, the nearer they gathered to it. Until they were subsumed by shadow. Despite the white banner tipped with green fluttering in the breeze, proudly carrying the snarling direwolf of House Stark, Podrick shivered.

Lady Bolton received them in the great hall. A hulking man, clad in the formidable leathers of House Bolton, led the way. The flayed man carved into his chest piece made Pod cringe. He swallowed deeply before they entered the room, already intimidated.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth, and Podrick of House Payne, m’lord,” announced their guide gruffly.

Lady Sansa Bolton was seated beside a man perhaps only a little elder to her in age, both of them dressed in rich, dark clothes, though Lady Sansa’s dress wasn’t so fine as when they had encountered her with Lord Baelish. Brienne bowed stiffly, and Podrick followed her cue. When he arose, he was unnerved to find the Lord watching him intently, with pale blue eyes.

“Thank you, Damon,” said the man who must surely be Lord Bolton, with a lazy flick of his hand.

Lady Sansa was looking between them both with some interest, but Lord Bolton’s eyes never wavered from Pod himself. Desperately hoping the fear would not show on his face, Pod directed his gaze to the wooden long table they were seated at, alone.

“Damon tells me you wish for an audience with my wife?” Lord Bolton said, “We are always glad to welcome new friends to Winterfell, are we not, Sansa?”

Sansa Stark beamed at him, seemingly more at ease in her childhood home than in the company of Lord Baelish. That was certainly a good sign, and one that would surely bring comfort to Brienne.

“Yes indeed, husband,” agreed Lady Sansa.

To Brienne, she offered a more subdued smile.

“I am afraid I was rather dismissive of your offer of assistance, the last time we met, Lady Brienne. Can you forgive a headstrong girl for being wilful?”

Brienne stiffened, as she always did when she was referred to as a Lady.

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” she said softly.

“In that case, Lady Brienne, let me offer you and your companion bread and salt, and rooms here in Winterfell-” Lady Sansa began, but her words dried up when Brienne fell to her knees, and unsheathed Oathkeeper, to lay the sword at her feet.

“That will not be necessary, my lady,” Brienne said insistently, “For I offer again to pledge myself to your service, and the service of House Stark, as I once swore myself to your lady mother.”

Lady Sansa raised one delicate eyebrow, turning to her husband. She rested one small, pale hand on his arm and leaned in close to whisper into his ear. Lord Bolton listened stoically, before granting Sansa a solitary, sharp nod. Abruptly he stood, a silky smooth smile on breaking across his icy features.

“Lady Sansa is most graciously inclined to grant your request. But you need not swear yourself to my wife personally; she is well protected here at Winterfell, by our men. However, she will accept your oath to serve House Stark.”

Lady Sansa stood also, and rounded the table to stand directly before Brienne.

“On behalf of my brother, King Rickon Stark,” Sansa clarified with a demure smile.

Though he could not see her face, Podrick saw Brienne’s yellow head dip in a nod.

“I will shield your backs and keep your counsel, and give my life for House Stark, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” Brienne vowed solemnly, as serious about her honour as ever she had been.

“On behalf of the House of my father, and my brother Rickon, the King in the North,” Lady Sansa said, her smile dropped, and her tone serious; “I vow that you shall always have a place at our hearth, and meat and mead at our table. We pledge to ask no service of you, that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

For a long minute, the air in the room was still, as if the gods had taken a moment to observe and honour the vow.

Then it was broken by Lord Bolton clapping his hands together once, approaching them swiftly.

“Excellent!” he declared, “We shall have somewhat of a feast tonight, in celebration. We will find rooms for you in the castle, but I apologise if the food tonight is not as decadent as you might expect. Winter is almost upon us, after all, and the harvest is not as bountiful as it might have been, had half our men not ridden to war.”

Brienne nodded, rising to her feet to re-sheath Oathkeeper into her belt. Pod remained respectfully quiet, as Lord Bolton grew nearer, until he was only a pace or two afore him.

“There is one request I must make of you, Lady Brienne,” Lord Bolton said, his charming smile doing nothing to set Brienne at ease, Pod knew.

His lady was far too wary of men than that. She pressed her shoulders back, displaying her full formidable height, but Ramsay Bolton did not seem in the slightest bit intimidated.

“My guards informed me that young Podrick here was introduced as your squire,” Lord Bolton said, framing the words as a question.

“Yes, my lord,” said Brienne stiffly.

“Well, now, that just won’t do.” Lord Bolton shook his head in false sympathy, whilst Podrick’s heart leapt in his chest, warning him of some danger. “You are not a knight, and therefore no adequate teacher for a squire.”

Lord Bolton held up a hand in advance of Brienne’s protest.

“I do not doubt your prowess on the battlefield, my lady, and I hope to see you best many men in the yard. I am sure you are quite capable of trouncing them all.”

From the corner of his eye, Podrick saw Brienne blink uncertainly, caught off-guard by an immediate respect for her skill, despite having not showcased it. Men rarely did anything but laugh at Brienne’s armour and knightly stance, but Lord Bolton seemed entirely sincere.

“Be that as it may…” Lord Ramsay continued, “Some semblance of order must be maintained. Podrick is perfectly welcome to train with you in this castle. But you shall have female attendants, as is proper, and Podrick will squire for another, once he has taken bread and salt.”

Lady Sansa gave Podrick a kindly look. “There are not so many knights in the North, but we do breed brave and fierce warriors here.”

“I…” Brienne looked to Pod, worry in every crease of her frown.

She had done so much for him, and here they were, finally in a position where she she could fulfil her oath of honour. She had not been the one to accompany Lady Sansa to her home, and Lady Arya was still lost, but another of Lady Catelyn’s children had been restored to Winterfell, and she was in a position to protect them both, just as their mother would have wanted.

“We accept your terms, my lord,” Podrick said, in a loud and firm voice, willing to work for a less worthy knight, if it meant that Brienne could finally be at peace with her oath.

Brienne flashed him a grateful look, whilst Lady Sansa continued to beam at him encouragingly. She stepped daintily to her husband’s side, entwining her fingers within her lord’s.

Podrick attempted a smile, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach, which rebelled against the oddly intense stare Lord Ramsay was continuing to bore into him.

*

There were two gigantic direwolves lolling by the top table at the feast, one pure black, the other snowy white. King Rickon was the young boy seated directly behind the beasts, in the place of honour, yet had savage manners, and as feral a method of eating as the wolves. Lady Sansa cooed over him, utterly unbothered by his uncouth behaviour. Brienne eyed Rickon with some distaste. But Podrick knew her ire was directed more at the people that had ensured this little boy had been left to fend for himself. Alone in the wilds of the North, without the protection of his family. War did terrible things to people, and it was always the weakest that suffered most.

Podrick enjoyed the roast mutton stew greatly. Despite Lord Bolton’s warning that the food would not be impressive, Pod hadn’t eaten so well in months, practically moaning at the taste of the orange and redberry sweetmeats, his favourite flavour of the treat.

His rooms hadn’t been far from Brienne’s chambers, large for a squire, with a clean fireplace and featherbed full of furs. He was presented with brown leathers and a small selection of tunics and woollen underclothes. Servants brought him a wooden tub and scalding hot water to fill it with, as well as a spicy soap to scrub himself with. It was the most luxury Pod had enjoyed since they left the decadence of King’s Landing, and he moaned in shock at how good it felt to heat his weary muscles and work orange oil into his calves. It felt like he'd been walking for years, and this was the first time he could relax. He ended up indulging far longer than he meant to in the hot water.

The clothes Pod had been offered seemed new, the stitches neat and unfrayed. The warmth of the woollen undershirt was incredible. His filthy red leathers seemed grimy and tattered in comparison to the boiled brown leather he was now clad in, in the fashion all Northmen wore. Everything fit him snugly. Almost suspiciously well, as though the castle seamstress had measured him from afar, in anticipation of their arrival. Shaking off such silly notions, Podrick tucked an apple into his pocket, from the brimming bowl of fruit someone had kindly thought to place in his new chambers. After months of sharing straw pallets or hard ground with Brienne, he could hardly believe he had a featherbed all of his own.

The Northmen he encountered on the way to dinner were gruff and grizzled, but Podrick didn’t smell fear on them, the way that he could so often sense it in the Red Keep. Tensions had always been high in that King’s court, and you were never sure who to trust. The men of the North seemed a little more subdued, less inclined to make extravagant proclamations, and their food, dress, eating implements and decoration were far less extravagant. But the castle felt welcoming in a way that the Red Keep never had.

Podrick felt eyes on him, the Southron in their midst, but few were bold enough to ogle him openly. He was startled to look upon the top table - the huge wolves were fascinating, and Podrick could barely keep his gaze from them - to find icy blue eyes staring at him intently. He could not help the shiver that crawled down his spine, at once more being the focus of Lord Bolton’s attention. For what possible reason could the lord be so interested in him? Did he suspect he and Brienne were Lannister spies? No doubt that was the real reason they had been separated, so they could not confer in secret. Unsettled, Pod returned his gaze to his food.

*

Brienne quickly rose in estimation in the eyes of the Northern court. How could she not, when she was so skilled in the yard and so sincere, when she spoke of honour and duty. Pod was not surprised that she was invited to stand guard at important meetings. He was more taken back that he was asked to accompany her, but did as he was bid.

He was therefore present at a small meeting of lords, where Lord and Lady Bolton announced their intention to separate.

“Lady Sansa and I were joined in marriage for a political alliance between my father and the South,” Lord Ramsay declared to the stunned Northern lords. “That alliance no longer stands, and so I intend to release her from her vows, so that she might make an alliance that greater benefits House Stark.”

“But my lord… now is not the time to unsettle the North,” said an old lord sat directly in front of where Podrick stood, whose name he had not yet learnt. He had a grey beard, and a gloved fist stitched on his leathers.

“What greater alliance than between the two eldest, most powerful Northern Houses?” chipped in a man Podrick knew was Ser Davos, Stannis Baratheon’s onion knight.

Podrick had also been present when Ser Davos begged King Rickon for permission to execute Lady Melisandre for the death of Lady Shireen Baratheon. But the little King would not have it, because Melisandre had resurrected his brother and ‘Shaggy liked her’. But he did say if she did ‘anything else bad’, Ser Davos could put her head on a spike.

“Lady Sansa is the only other child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, that we can be certain still lives,” said Lord Ramsay calmly, “Her place is here, watching over her brother until he reaches maturity. My place is in the Dreadfort, with my stepmother and infant brother.”

“But my lord, a marriage before the old gods…” the same old lord said, “Forgive me, Lady Sansa, but you are not a maid.”

“Oh, but she is.” Lord Bolton grinned broadly, taking hold of his wife’s hand to press a chivalrous kiss to it. “I never intended for my father’s plot to come to fruition, my lords, so took the necessary steps to ensure it did not.”

“My lord husband has been most kind,” Lady Sansa added, with a winsome smile, “We have become the closest of friends, and I hope we shall remain so, but we are no more than that.”

“Lady Sansa was born for greater than a legitimized bastard, your grace. In exchange for one favour, I will relinquish my claim on her,” concluded Lord Ramsay, in the faces of the speechless Northern lords. He was directing his words to the young King, but Podrick saw his eyes flick over to Jon Snow, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“We ask that you dissolve our marriage honourably, so that I might return to the Dreadfort, and oversee the preparations being made there to help us withstand the threat from beyond the Wall.”

“So that Sansa can marry Jon and live in Winterfell with me and Shaggy and Ghost forever?” asked King Rickon.

Jon Snow flushed in mortification at the suggestion he might marry his sister, but Lady Sansa’s sweet smile never dropped.

“Something akin to that, your grace,” she murmured.

“Yes!” called out the King in the North, “Sansa is not married now. Lord Bolton can go home to his castle!”

“Thank you, your grace,” Lord Ramsay chuckled, before Lady Sansa surprised them all by drawing him down into a deep, loving kiss.

“Still a maid, my arse,” grumbled the old lord, but Podrick doubted anyone else heard it over the hesitant, confused clapping which broke out.

“There is one more thing I have to ask of you, your grace- the favour I spoke of.” Lord Bolton reminded them.

The room became solemn again, in anticipation of his request.

“I have a daughter, your grace. A babe named Ingrid Snow,” Lord Ramsay revealed, causing a bristle of mutters to break out among the seated men.

“I would ask that you legitimise her, so that I might raise her to be a lady, and one day find a good match for her.”

King Rickon blinked, clearly unsure, and turned to his own baseborn brother. Jon Snow leaned forward to whisper something quiet into his ear.

“I will sign the- the-”

“Naturalisation decree,” Jon supplied helpfully.

The young King nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, that. I’ll sign it!”

“Wonderful,” sighed Ramsay Bolton, like a man who no longer had a care in the world.

*

Podrick was startled to learn he was included in the party of men expected to leave Winterfell for the Dreadfort. Brienne came to bid her goodbyes, her eyes glassy at their parting. Podrick thanked her for being the honourable knight he could one day aspire to be, and she blushed darkly and mumbled her reply, before shaking his hand roughly.

Lord Bolton came to his chambers also, to personally welcome him to the household.

“You are to squire for me alone, now,” his new liege lord declared, with a wide grin.

He stepped unusually close to impart this information, icy eyes burning into Podrick’s own, so strongly that he was unable to look away. A gentle hand touched Pod’s chin, his lord running a single finger along his jaw, to softly brush down his throat until it rested in the hollow of his neck. Podrick swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest.

“You are exactly as I remember,” Lord Ramsay purred, “Quite perfect.”

Perplexed, Pod found his mouth was dry, unable to form a single word. Ramsay Bolton licked his own lips, a familiar smirk growing on them, as he stepped even closer, so close that Podrick could count the lashes on his eyelids, or the freckles upon his nose.

“I aim to impress you, my dear,” Ramsay revealed, leaning in even closer, to whisper the words directly into his ear.

Podrick whimpered when the mysterious words were punctuated with a sharp nip to his earlobe.

Then he was gone, stepping back out smoothly in a swirl of dark fabric as his cloak rippled. And Podrick was left to stumble, flicking out one hand to clutch the wall for support, dizzy as he heaved in deep breaths. He was startled to find his blood up, feeling himself harden in his breeches.

**Author's Note:**

> Jsyk, Ramsay named his baby brother Domeric, and married him to his daughter Ingrid when they came of age, which was his plan all along. Legitimizing her gave him an excuse to raise her as a lady without tipping off his bannermen that he didn't intend to marry again/let his brother marry any of their daughters.
> 
> Also, Theon moved to Braavos, joined an acting troupe and lived a long and happy life. (This will be explored in the Tertiary Universe, [which is now a thing!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1208694))


End file.
